


When Night Falls

by janearts



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22673098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janearts/pseuds/janearts
Summary: Written for NANOWRIMO 2019, "When Night Falls" is a series of five sketch stories that explore how Cullen and Bree Amell manage (or mismanage) Cullen's night terrors as a couple.
Relationships: Amell & Cullen Rutherford, Amell/Cullen Rutherford, Female Amell & Cullen Rutherford, Female Amell/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	1. One Dark Night

When Bree Amell joined the Inquisition, she swore to herself that she would not cause the Commander of the Inquisition’s Forces further grief. She had what Varric would call “A History” with Cullen.

The short of it was this: Bree and Cullen had been occupants—Apprentice and Templar, respectively—of Ferelden’s Circle before its fall. Bree was spared the blood mages, abominations, and demons, ironically because by that time she had already been conscripted into the Grey Wardens for aiding and abetting a blood mage, proving that the Maker had a sense of humour after all. Cullen was given no such mercy. When Bree returned to Kinloch Hold in her capacity as a Grey Warden and freed the Circle in her capacity as an avenging former resident, she was the one to find Cullen imprisoned, tortured, and dying. While in the Circle, Bree had been quite taken with the good-looking and good-natured fledgling Templar and now found too late that those feelings had been reciprocated. Suffering and shamed, those feelings Cullen had once harboured towards a mage were tarnished by torture and temptation. That is where their story should have ended…

…had the Maker not had a sense of humour, for Bree in her position as an Advisor to the Inquisitor found herself to be working alongside the former Templar she had found so handsome as an Apprentice all those years ago. In light of their shared past, Bree created a cardinal rule: 

_1\. She would give the Commander a wide berth._

There had been a fatal flaw in her plan, however: she had not bothered to inform Cullen of this rule. So when he repeatedly broke this rule of hers by barging into her quarters with a fresh complaint, she expunged it and allowed herself to pester him as she pleased since he felt comfortable enough in her presence to badger her in turn. While she could not give Cullen a wide berth because the Commander insisted on working closely with her, Grand Enchanter Fiona, and the rebel mages, Bree swore herself to a new policy: 

_2\. She would then, at the very least, never touch the man._

This rule, too, was voided when Cullen one day leaned in to kiss her. But Cullen’s ghosts did not haunt him alone, so Bree drafted a new guideline when they began their trysts: 

_3\. She would never stay long in his bed, especially past sundown._

Bree did not think this rule would be difficult to keep when she first glimpsed Cullen’s sleeping quarters. She had planned to wash in her own room, but now it looked like she had little other choice. There was not a tub or a washbasin in sight. No dividing screen for privacy. In fact, Cullen’s lodgings were absurd for any sensible creature of comfort.

Bree eagerly and without qualm strode into the heart of what could only technically be called a bedroom and turned to ask incredulously, “Why, Commander! How ever did you get a bed up here?”

Cullen, who had not moved from his position by the ladder, merely tilted his head at her with a serious expression. “I found it up here.” 

But Bree had already moved past him as he spoke, exploring the broken floorboards—or were they ceiling boards? It was hard for her to tell, since Cullen’s quarters lacked some of both. For a man who did not like to be vulnerable, he was certainly exposed. Bree swivelled from her position in the corner as another, more intimate, question came to mind.

“ _Do you keep a chamber pot up here?_ Where your soldiers can hear you?”

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest, “If you must know, I use the garderobe.”

Bree nodded, satisfied by this response and moved to examine the wrought iron candelabra and the rich red carpet underneath what she now decided to call floorboards. Then she moved towards the chest and barrels. Cullen had barely touched the space. Barely made it his own. She considered for a moment that perhaps the Templar in him was unused to personal, private space. She had certainly been a stranger to the concept herself in the Circle. The thought was there and then gone as she moved to the side of the bed.

“Don’t you get cold?” She asked as she examined his two measly pillows and swept a hand over the blanket. 

“Sometimes,” he said, slowly, as if to hint that maybe she ought to do something about it.

The hint, however, went entirely unnoticed as the sound of one of Cullen’s office doors opening and closing caught Bree’s attention instead. There was the soft sound of footsteps followed by the sound of another door opening. Bree crossed over to the ladder to peer down into Cullen’s office below. From her vantage point on high, she saw a glimpse of a steel helmet disappear into the sunlight beyond before that door too was closed. She turned, baffled, to Cullen standing by the ladder still, watching her. 

“And you can sleep through that racket?”

Cullen smiled dryly, “I don’t sleep much as it is. My patrols don’t bother me.”

“Oh.”

Bree looked at him as all the pieces came together in her mind to form one whole picture. She should have guessed that the Commander was still unaccustomed to a full night’s sleep. So she turned to reassess the room with new eyes: this space was the equivalent of a Captain’s At-Sea cabin, a practical if austere resting space that allowed Cullen to get where he needed to be quickly—namely, down one ladder to his proverbial battle station. And Cullen was never off duty, never not vigilant. Perhaps it was his trauma that marked him this way, perhaps it was his training as a Templar, but Bree thought she understood nonetheless. 

“At least you get plenty of fresh air.”

She won a chuckle out of him as he acceded, “That I do.”

❖

Bree had been obedient to her third rule with all the gusto of a Chantry Initiate, telling herself that it was, after all, for Cullen’s sake. On this night as in previous nights, she made herself move with that same steely self-discipline, willing herself to sit up from the warm bed, put her feet on the cold floor, and peer into the darkness to see where her clothes had been discarded. If she timed her descent right, the soldiers on duty need never know their Commander had been in any way… _inconvenienced_. A warm hand wrapped around her wrist and she glanced back at its owner.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight,” Cullen said, pausing slightly before adding the unnecessary detail, “with me.” 

Bree froze. She had crafted these rules for herself to ensure that her behaviour did not jeopardise his wellbeing. Now he was asking her if she wanted to break the last bastion that had made her feel secure about making him feel safe.

“Are you quite sure?” She whispered back, “I don’t mind going back to my room, you know.” 

“I’d like to… try. If-if you want to, that is.”

Bree laughed at this, as if her _desire_ was ever in doubt. “Oh, but I do!”

The loudness of her laugh seemed to shock her, and remembering where she was, Bree lowered her voice again, “I’ll stay the night and wake up before daybreak. It will be pretty quiet, I should think, and I can slip out without your patrols noticing…”

She could see the path of her route in her mind’s eye when she noticed Cullen’s smirk out of the corner of her actual ones.

“What?”

Cullen relaxed, releasing her wrist and reclining, leaning back on his elbow, his smirk turning into a smug grin. As if anyone or anything could get past _his_ patrols.

“You give yourself too much credit, Bree. You think word of our indiscretion hasn’t spread through the barracks already?”

Bree opened her mouth to protest, her pride wounded, but the thought of another emotion wounded her further: shame. Cullen had been ashamed of her before. “I’m sorry, Cullen,” she whispered. “I should have been more careful.”

Cullen’s self-pleased grin vanished as quickly as it came and he leaned towards her again, “No, no, that’s not—that’s not what I meant.” He cringed, “I only meant to tease you.”

But Bree would not be satisfied until she had asked, “So you’re not bothered? By people knowing, I mean.”

“I would rather my— _our_ —private affairs remain that way.”

“Oh, I understand _completely_ ,” Bree sighed. “It is _so_ important to maintain a degree of privacy in one’s life, don’t you think? I mean I should hate to jeopardise my standing with Skyhold’s mages in dallying with you, after all.” This statement was accompanied by a small pat on his chest. “Not when I think they’re finally starting to see things my way.”

There was a spark of ire in Cullen’s eyes. He was unaccustomed to being treated as a debasing agent, as something ruinous, as someone else’s shameful secret. He gaped, “Why—” But Bree blinked prettily at him, feigning innocence, and Cullen cut himself off. He cleared his throat. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? Or I won’t get any sleep at this rate.”

“As you wish.” Bree rearranged herself, drawing her legs under the warm blankets, plumping the spare pillow, and pressing herself flush against him. “ _Commander._ ”

Nose-to-nose, Cullen did not retreat, although he did regret ever thinking to tease Bree at so late an hour. “No title. Not in bed.”

“Yes, _ser_.”

“ _Bree.”_

 _“_ As it pleases you. I’ll behave.” 

Cullen seemed to be satisfied by this promise, wrapping one arm around her and resting his head close to the crook of her neck. Bree reached to stroke his hair and ears, hoping he could not hear her quick heartbeat. After a while, she felt Cullen begin to relax, breathe slow and deep, and loosen his hold on her. But Bree remained awake. She absentmindedly petted Cullen’s hair, a small knot of anxiety in the pit of her stomach as she played mental chess against an enemy she did not fully know. Cullen had never offered any great detail into the sort of torture he suffered; from what he had said more than a decade ago, Bree gleaned that demons had used an image of her, the promise of her, to tempt and to torture. She had half a mind to leave and slip out back to her own bed, but did not know how to face him in the morning... Cullen, his disappointment, his sadness, and all the questions that might go unspoken after he awoke to find himself alone in his bed. If she stayed, however, Bree worried that her very presence would disturb or disorient him after a nightmare. She weighed the damage she could do: hurt him by leaving his side or hurt him by remaining there. 

She settled on the latter, but to ease her anxiety, she forged a new rule: 

_4\. If Cullen should suffer a night terror, all prior rules are to be reinstated until dawn._

She would give him a wide berth. She would not touch him. She would not stay long in his bed. She would not give him cause to fear her or question if she was real. Vowing this, Bree allowed sleep to claim her.

❖

There was one technical detail that Bree had not once questioned in crafting her new rule: Bree assumed that she would wake up should Cullen experience a night terror. She was wrong. 

That night, Cullen awoke gasping for air. As he oriented himself to his surroundings—his warm bed in Skyhold and not the cold cool stones of Kinloch Hold—he exhaled and lay his head back on the pillow. But even as he reclined his head, he could not help the itch in the back of his mind, the small fear that could not be banished. He wanted to _know_ and that meant waking the woman next to him. He took deep breaths, trying to calm his body down in the hope that would make the fear and the itch go away. But even as his breathing slowed, his apprehension did not leave him. He rolled over to confront the form beside him. She was curled up under the blanket and clutching one of his pillows to her. He lay like this, watchful and wakeful, for some time before at last he yielded to the fear in his mind. He lit the candle atop the barrel that acted as his bedside table and proceeded to gingerly shake her shoulder.

“Bree.”

His word acted like a summons. Bree inhaled deeply, as if she had been far away, and with a small exhale that sounded something like “hmnh”, she opened her eyes and smiled at the new day. Only it wasn’t a new day; it was still the dead of night. The smile dropped and Bree blinked at him, “Are you alright?”

He examined her eyes closely in the candlelight. Once upon a time, they reminded him of Ferelden’s farmlands on a sunny day: bright green grass, fields blooming with rapeseed, and warm, worn paths of brown. His torture had tainted that, too, and now the green he saw was rifts and magic and the Fade beyond. But her eyes were clear. No change lurked there. He didn’t realise it, but he had been holding his breath. He exhaled. 

“I’m alright.” He paused, because now _she_ was examining _him_ , and added—”Bad dream.”—too meekly for his own liking. The fear had abated once the itch was scratched, but now in its place he felt embarrassment tinged with guilt. He felt embarrassed that he had woken her out of fear and guilt that he had ever doubted her to be anything other than who she was. 

Cullen tried to read her face, which he felt was too carefully blank, especially for a woman whose emotions—however fleeting—were usually as easy to read as out of a book. Bree relinquished her pillow, “I should head back to my quarters since I’m up,” she whispered. “I’m supposed to meet with Josephine and Fiona in the morning.” And with that, she got up and started to seek out her things.

“ _What?_ No. That’s not necessary.” That would be admitting that they failed—that _he_ failed. He had scared her off. Not that she would be the first. How many fellow Templars had quietly requested rack reassignments just to be further away from him? So that they could be less on edge in the night? So that their sleep would be undisturbed? “ _Bree_.” His urgent whisper was practically a hiss. 

She wouldn’t return to the bed, though, and continued to dress herself. “Bree, I’m sorry—” He shouldn’t have woken her. He regretted waking her.

Bree waved a hand in his direction as if to shush him. “What for? Everything is going according to plan. I told you I’d leave before daybreak and sneak past your patrols…” He watched her cross to the window to peek out to the curtain wall and Cullen held his breath with her as they both heard the soft footfall of a soldier who did not want to be responsible for waking their light-sleeping Commander. Cullen caught Bree’s eye as she made her way to the ladder. He was still breathing shallowly when she asked, “I’ll see you at breakfast, yes? And same thing tonight?” She winked roguishly, “Think on it.” 

Cullen merely nodded. With that, Bree’s head disappeared as she descended the ladder. Cullen winced as he heard the sound of leather on wood as the Advisor tried to emulate the Inquisitor’s foolhardy penchant for ignoring ladder rails entirely and sliding down to the bottom. A soft thud confirmed that Bree had reached the floor at speed. Cullen only exhaled when he heard the soft creak of the door, the inflection of the creak suggesting she was headed back to her quarters in the Upper Courtyard by way of the Keep. Cullen smirked to himself. Sneak past his patrols, indeed! But she had still wanted to… again. With that, Cullen sat up and, in the wee hours, moved to get ready for the day.


	2. One Quiet Night

She woke to cool hands embracing her. Hands that still smelled like the leather gloves that had recently been cast aside. Bree groaned with sleep and propped herself up onto her side to face the culprit. The softly lit candle felt like a small sun to her pupils and she squinted at Cullen. She had slept through him entering her room, removing his steel plate armour, disrobing, and slipping into her bed. Her body seemed only to draw the line at cold air and cold hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as she made room for him in the small bed her room had been outfitted with. Another sleepless night. Bree closed her eyes and tried to find the parts of the bed that were still warm. This did not include Cullen, who was cold to the touch from moving about her little unheated room, but he drew her close regardless. Bree turned her face away from the light of the candle, curling in against Cullen. She breathed slow and deep, and felt the pull of sleep. The same could not be said of Cullen, however. Sleep did not come so easy for the Commander, not after a nightmare. 

It was safe to say that Cullen did not enjoy the chronic nightmares he suffered, but more than that he hated the effect they had on him. He hated the sweat, the clamminess, and the racing heartbeat that wouldn’t slow. He hated the deep-rooted fear that wouldn’t abate, the creep of paranoia, and the enduring feeling of helplessness. Stopping his Lyrium intake hadn’t helped; rather, it made things worse. But Cullen was determined he would not be bound and that he would endure like he had always endured. Cullen laid there, staring at the ceiling, sometimes casting a wary glance at the shadows in the room, and tangling his fingers in Bree’s hair as he attempted to massage her neck and back.

“Bree?” His voice was soft and quiet. 

“Mmhn.” He felt the sound vibrate against his skin.

“How do you know…” He began, but was unsure of how to finish. _How do you know when you’ve succumbed?_ “How do you know when it’s not real?” 

For a moment, there was no response. Bree had not told Cullen that in her rampage through Kinloch Hold ten years ago, she and her companions had fallen to a Demon of Sloth. To be fair to Cullen, Bree Amell had not admitted to _anyone_ outside those with her what had happened... It was simply not the sort of thing you advertised as a mage. She turned her face upwards so that one eye alone had to contend with the candlelight. 

“Well,” she said, which was as good of a start as any. “Demons want to give you what you want without giving much attention to _how_ you want to get what you want. For them, it’s all about satisfying the desire. They don’t realise that the journey to that satisfaction is important.” _If you go back quietly, I’ll do better this time. I’ll make you much happier._ She remembered, briefly, Duncan welcoming her to Weisshaupt, congratulating her on her adventures, her accomplishments, and her accolades as a Warden. But Duncan was dead. The Demon had done quite badly the first time. 

“Mmm.” Cullen’s hands had stilled on her nape. _Tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have._ This spoke only partially to his own experience, but he supposed it was the only portion of his experience that Bree was aware of. _A mage, of all things_. 

“It’s all _too_ perfect, in the end. It feels real, but when you stop to think, _really_ think, it doesn’t make any sense at all.” Cullen was still thinking, staring up at the ceiling, when Bree observed rather soberly, “Nobody farts.” This earned her a surprised snort and Cullen turned his head to look at her with raised eyebrows. “Life is only _that_ neat and tidy in a demon’s dream," she replied flatly.

She shifted onto her back and stared up at the ceiling with Cullen. She had found something that was safer to share than the Sloth Demon’s dreams. “Sometimes I have nightmares about the Tower too. Oh, not the kind you have, exactly. Wynne called them… oh, what did she call them? ‘Recurrent anxiety dreams’, I think. In my dream, I’m all alone in the Tower. I go about looking for everyone, but I can’t find anyone and nothing seems right. The Tower isn’t a perfect match—corridors don’t lead to the rooms that they ought, that sort of thing—but it feels familiar, just the same. I find that I am the only single solitary soul wandering the Tower, but I feel… watched. Some dreams I hide. Some dreams I run. Some dreams I wander to try and find what’s watching me without success. One time, I had this feeling of dread wash over me at the base of some stairs I did not recall. But instead of running, I marched up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, there was this strange woman, sitting on a bed in Circle robes with her back to me. When I went to look her in the eye, her face was awful. She had black pits for eyes and when she saw me she opened her mouth too wide for a human to do. She had these horrifically long jagged teeth. I don’t know what came over me—I was so frightened—but I also felt so cross that I shook her forcibly by the shoulders and told her to pull herself together. Just like that, I woke up and I felt… proud. Even if it was a silly thing to do, I had never done anything like that before in a dream. Wynne used to say that a skilled mage knows how to shape the narrative of the dream. I still have nightmares, but I haven’t had ones like that in a long time.” She prodded his chest, “Maybe that’s something you could try? Deliberately go against your instincts. Try something different. Something new.” 

The retelling had awakened at her and she looked at him bright-eyed, but Cullen’s breathing had slowed and he looked back at her with half-lidded eyes and a soft half-smile. He promised in his own coy way, “I shall endeavour to try.” Bree pursed her lips, but accepted this. She moved over him to blow out the candle. That would have to do for now.


	3. One Cold Night

Another night and another nightmare. Cullen awoke with a start, or rather, he awoke with a shout. Hot and short of breath, he felt like he was suffocating under all the layers of blankets Bree insisted they keep on his bed. He threw their heavy weight off of him and swung his legs over the bed, grateful for the cool air on his skin and in his lungs. He brought the heels of his hands to his eyes, massaging them and his brows as if that would banish the nightmares that came again and again and again.

The shout had also pulled his sleeping companion from pleasant slumber into bleary-eyed consciousness. With Cullen's back to her, Bree instinctively reached out with a hand to comfort him, but pulled back mid-air. This time, it wasn’t an unwritten rule that stopped her, but the thought that being touched by an unseen hand would be frightening. She kept quiet as she thought before bringing what she had concluded was the least frightening part of her body—the flat of her foot—to Cullen’s back and gave him a gentle push in the kidneys. “You should get some fresh air,” she said, trying to be gentle in tone and in pressure as she continued her fruitless endeavour to gently shove him off the bed. Cullen turned to look back at her with weary confusion, “What?” 

“Go take a walk.” Bree meant it as a suggestion, but it had the sound of an order, especially when followed by: “Gaze out at the mountains and the stars. Check in with your soldiers on watch. When you’ve done one round of the curtain wall, you can come back to bed.” 

Cullen took this in dully, but allowed himself to be pushed off the bed. He stood and turned, grabbing her errant foot. He held onto it as she tried to yank her leg away. Earlier in the night, he might have been playful. As it was, he stood there impassively, foot in hand, as his self-appointed commander told him sternly, “And  _ don’t _ allow yourself to sit down in your chair and do paperwork.” Cullen normally got up and went back to work after a night terror, but he reasoned that checking in with the watch would do no harm. He gently tucked the offending foot back under the covers as he agreed to her terms, “Alright.  _ Alright _ . I’ll be back.”

Cullen did not descend down the ladder until he had put on his usual cuirass, pauldrons, and vambraces. When he did finally descend, he paused at his desk. There was work to be done, of course, there was always work to be done. Tempting, but he had resisted temptations before. He swept past it and out onto the curtain wall. He took a deep breath, massaged the back of his neck, and looked out into the moonlit night. It was here he was supposed to think. So he thought.

_ This is stupid. _

He looked out to the mountains, dark hulking shapes whose snow-topped crusts gleamed in the moonlight. He looked to the stars, bright in the cloudless sky in a place where candlelight could not reach. He looked at the bright and distant moon. He didn’t know what sort of wisdom or comfort he was supposed to draw from either. He continued to stare out in gloomy silence, leaning on the parapet. There was a chance that if he came back to his quarters too soon, Bree would kick up a fuss. He didn’t fear that. What he feared was going back to bed, staring out into the dark, praying for a dreamless sleep that would never come. What he feared was fighting a seed of jealousy as Bree fell easily into the depths of slumber, even after she told him of darkspawn and dragons and darkness without light down in the deep. Maker, he missed being able to sleep. He missed the unadulterated contentedness of slipping into a warm bed with soft pillows. He missed being able to lay himself down without even questioning whether he’d be able to sleep through the night. What a gift that had been. Now he was staring at some large piles of rock in the dark of the night because his bedmate thought this would be good for his health.

He left his post and the mountains behind with bitterness and moved to do a rotation around the curtain wall. The soldiers on duty were not surprised to see him. At this point, it was well known that their Commander did not sleep easy most nights. He conversed with each, even when the conversation was not particularly enlightening. Thompson and Johnson were feuding over whether a cold wind was coming from the southeast or southwest. He caught Korbin telling—or possibly re-telling, judging by Luka’s scowl—the story of when he held off a darkspawn contingent on his lonesome for two whole days in the Deep Roads. He deftly and diplomatically dodged another discussion about the Chantry with Belinda, but made a quiet note to set her on Bree one day. He checked in with Neria and  Ed Two  Hall, who was grateful to have distance between him and ZITHER! When the Commander had completed his round, he was not sure what he was supposed to have accomplished. The only thing that he could establish was that, on the whole, it was a quiet, boring night and that lookout watches were as much about interpersonal relations as they were about fortress security.

Cullen climbed the ladder back up to his bed. He was tired and disheartened. He put his clothes away by moonlight with the sad knowledge that in a short while he would take them out again to start the day proper. When he approached the bed, he found that Bree had cocooned herself with blankets, leaving his side of the bed barren and exposed to the open air. He moved to pluck an end of a blanket to use for himself, but discovered that he needed to  _ find  _ an end to pluck. When this failed, he resorted to shaking the cocoon. Bree groaned, confused as to why anyone would disturb her at this hour, “What is it?”

“You’ve taken all the blankets.”

The cocoon shifted as Bree unravelled and saw for herself the state of the bed. 

“Oh, Cullen, I’m sorry.” She lifted a blanketed arm for him. “I’m not used to sharing a bed.”

He climbed under the offered covers and lay on his back. He turned his head to the side to look at Bree. She had not moved to embrace him, but rather curled back in on herself to keep warm. He had not wanted her sympathy or worse, her pity, but now as Bree drifted blissfully back into dreams, he thought that, at the very least, he would like some acknowledgement. A debrief. An after-action review. He pursed his lips before deciding to repay her back in kind: he placed one cold foot on her leg. She curled up tighter, “Cullennn...” Under ordinary circumstances, the word would have had an exclamation point at the end, but Bree was tired and the ‘-en’ of his name faded before she could put any more emphasis on it. “I did as you bid me,” he started, putting another cold foot on her. She shied from this one too. “Good,” was the only sigh in response. He inched away from his cold side of the bed towards her warmer one, adding sardonically, “And I thought your exercise might serve some purpose—” He cast a glance in her direction, shifting the weight of the blankets more in his favour, “—but now I see it was a ploy to get rid of me and have the bed all to yourself,  _ undisturbed _ .”

The untruth of it all stirred her more than his cold feet. Bree raised her head to protested groggily, “ _ I did no such thing. _ ” She blinked at his smug smile and fluffed her pillow, adding airily, “I merely suggested it because I thought it might be a good way to re-connect with this world after a dream, that’s all.” She huddled back down under the blankets, dragging her pillow after her, “I shan’t suggest it again—” The rest of the sentence came back to him muffled. Cullen ducked his head under the blankets, joining Bree in her self-made cavern. “I did not say it did not work,” he retorted, gathering her in his arms so he could benefit from her body heat. He felt rather than saw her tilt her head up to look at him as she replied, her breath hot on his neck, “Good. Then tell me about what happened on your walk.” There, safe under the blankets, Cullen told her about Thompson and Johnson—both of whom were wrong and in desperate need of a working compass—and faithfully re-told Korbin’s story since he had heard it himself at minimum five times by this point. He told her of Belinda and her convictions and congratulated himself on pairing Neria with Ed Two, whom Cullen knew to be raised by the Dalish in his early youth, for the midnight watch. By the time he finished, Cullen felt warm, calm, and drowsy under the blankets. He was not confident that this feeling would hold or that he would sleep easy until dawn, but he felt cosy enough to try.


	4. One Rainy Night

The skies raged that night. It poured, lightning illuminating the Orlesian room with thunder rumbling overhead. Cullen awoke gasping. He quickly backed himself up against the headboard, breathing heavily. As he took in his surroundings, he saw that Bree was still up reading, calmly racing a candle that was nearing its base to the end of her book. 

“It’s not  _ me _ ,” she said, as if trying to read his mind, only Cullen’s mind wasn’t on the storm.

“… _ What? _ ”

Bree blinked at him, likewise confused, pointing a finger to the window, “The storm.”

“Oh.” He leaned his head against the headboard, grateful for the candlelight, and focused on controlling his breathing. 

Bree returned to her book, “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

There was a pause, in which a great deal of things went unsaid by Bree, but which were understood by Cullen. He lifted his head from the headboard and looked at her sternly, “I am  _ not  _ going on a walk in this weather.”

"I never said you ought." Nevertheless, Bree gently closed her book and put it on the bedside table. She slipped out of bed and marched towards the Orlesian doors that lead out onto the balcony and threw them open. Cullen, who was halfway out of bed to follow her, hesitated. She turned back to him, “Well, come on, then. It’s not a walk.”

Bree stepped out onto the balcony and into the rain. Cullen drew to the door, but did not step outside.

“What? Bree, no— _ someone might see you _ .” 

Bree was naked. And she was standing in the rain as if none of that mattered. She replied testily. 

“It’s past midnight and anyone who is still up is off doing something Orlesian with their little band of aristocratic misfits. Look, none of the windows are alight. It’s safe. Now are you coming out or do I have to stand here until morning?”

Cullen glumly stepped out, tight-lipped, and making an attempt at modesty by covering himself with his hands, which was more than could be said for Bree.

Bree lifted up her chin, stubbornly, “Take a deep breath.”

Cullen obliged, but his exhale sounded like a snort. Bree ignored this. The man was determined to be stubborn and she was determined to meet him in stubbornness.

“Describe what you feel.”

“I feel exposed.”

She gave him a stony look, “Try again.”

He sighed, “I feel cold. And wet.” 

She had wanted a more prosaic answer about the feel of droplets pitter-pattering against the skin, but this would have to do.

“Describe what you hear.”

“Rain.”

That was too easy, but Bree did not ask him to expound on the sound of the rainwater hitting and flowing through the gutters or the whisper of the leaves of the trees in the wind. So she moved on.

“Describe what you see.”

“A naked woman on an Orlesian balcony.” His eyes dipped down briefly before meeting her own. “She’s cold.”

Bree, unashamed of her nakedness and unwilling to yield to Cullen's recalcitrance, went on doggedly: “Past me.”

He dutifully looked around. 

“Trees? Grass. Some excessive Orlesian architecture…”

“Describe what you smell.”

“Rain, again.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Describe what you taste.”

“Taste?” He looked at her quizzically. 

“Taste,” she responded simply. “Go on.”

“I don't taste much of anything, I suppose. Look, Bree, this is ridiculous. What is standing in the rain supposed to achieve?”

She crossed her arms, “When you wake up from a nightmare and you’re frightened and wondering if everything is real or if you’re still secretly in a dream, how do you  _ know _ _?_ You know by anchoring yourself, just taking a moment to stop, think, and observe. A demon may have the advantage of sifting through your thoughts, but making things appear real is taxing and memories are by their very nature imperfect, disorganised, and fragmented.  _ That _ is your advantage. If it is a dream, tax them to exhaustion by forcing them to render an answer to each of the questions I asked you. If it is not a dream, you will have your answer— _ what is it? _ ”

Cullen was gaping at her. He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes with suspicion, and cocking his head to the side. “Were you… were you  _ actually  _ paying attention during Senior Enchanter Llywelyn’s lectures? You did nothing but doodle on parchment!”

Bree stiffened, blushing, “How did you know I doodled during his module?” 

“It was my duty to watch you,” he retorted, adding, “and your fellow pupils. Even if that meant watching you faff about while a perfectly good lecturer tried to impart some of his wisdom. Now can we take this lecture inside?”

Bree opened her mouth as if to lecture him further, but shut it abruptly. “As it pleases you,  _ Commander _ . Let’s go in, then.”

She turned to go in and felt a gentle smack on her bottom. She stopped dead in her tracks, still in the rain, and turned to face him, looking aghast. “Cullen!”

“I thought you needed a little encouragement.”

“ _ Ooh! _ ” She huffed, marching inside. Her exercise had not gone as she had envisioned, and it felt more and more like Cullen took every chance he could get to thwart her perfectly good intentions. Bree snatched bath towels for the both of them and threw one at him. Cullen deftly caught it, ignoring her spark of annoyance.

“Well, I hope you’re feeling better,” she said, patting herself dry.

Cullen looked up from roughly rubbing his hair dry with the towel, answering, “I can think of one thousand ways to feel better. None of which involve standing in the rain.” He continued to dry the rest of him, listing as he went, “A glass of wine, for example, or some warmed whisky mixed with honey. A back massage, although I’d accept a shoulder massage from the weak of arm—” Bree rolled her eyes at this jab, “—A warm bath? A soft bed. Even sparring—”

“Message received, Commander!”

She very nearly stomped back to bed where the candle burned gamely on. Her book would be an escape, at least. 

Cullen slipped into bed beside her, where she pointedly ignored his presence. Her inattention became less pointed over time as Bree became absorbed by the narrative pull of her book. She gradually inched down her pillows to the mattress, ensconced.

Cullen once would have been glad to be ignored, to be graced with the polite, collegiate silence that gave him space to gather his wits without interference and intervention. Bree had granted him that once and he decided, however foolishly, that he found her presence—and her attempts at soothing him after a nightmare—rather diverting. And that’s really what he needed after a nightmare: a diversion. As far as Cullen was concerned, he needed enough time to take the edge off. Previously, he had done that through a mixture of wine and work, which he considered a productive use of his time. Bree had other ideas, and he indulged her fancies—avoiding wine after a certain hour, taking a walk along the perimeter after a nightmare, walking out on a balcony naked in the rain, whatever bizarre desire struck her in that moment—and although he could not confirm that her fancies  _ themselves _ worked, he couldn’t help but admit to himself that she provided enough of a diversion that the fear of returning to bed and, more importantly, returning to sleep was not as strong as if he had merely stayed in bed and prayed.

Now, however, he was sufficiently awake to desire her attention, her continued redirection from the thoughts and fears that returned when he closed his eyes. If she had wanted him to be drowsy, she should not have dragged him out into the rain. He inched from his side of the bed to hers as nonchalantly as he could, resting his head beside hers so he could read. It was an awful read, and one that would have made at least three of the Randy Dowager’s scarves flutter in shock out of five. He wanted to lecture, an activity they were both fond of doing, on the book’s lack of merits, but he kept his mouth shut. Now, curled up next to her, he wondered if she wished he was rather more like the men in her books and a little less like the broken, stubborn, dour man he thought he was. 

He kissed her softly on the shoulder. The intensity of her attention shifted to him, “What?” Her skin was hot, her breathing shallow, and her heartbeat fast. Cullen realised too late that it was a fool thing to pull her attention away. As awake as he felt, he wasn’t ready. Not for that kind of diversion. Not tonight. 

“I… er… I’m sorry I made fun of your game—”

“ _ Technique. _ ” 

“—technique.”

“Thank you for going along with me, anyway, even if it didn’t work.”

“I suppose I needed the bath.”

Bree laughed lightly, not bothering to contradict him, before returning to her book.

Cullen pulled away to his own side of the bed, trying to calculate how much time the candle had left and whether he’d be able to fall back asleep within that window. He sneezed and looked back to Bree, who had the decency to look sheepish. “Bree Amell,” he declared quietly, “If I catch cold because you  _ insisted _ I go outside in a storm and have to suffer fever dreams on top of everything else, I will send  _ you  _ next time the Inquisitor demands onyx from the Hinterlands.”


	5. One Bright Night

There were nights where Cullen could not feel more free and unbound in his cool little loft above his office, the movement of his soldiers below a comfort: he was not alone and there was vigilance. Other times, the moonlight streaming through the broken rafters cast such bright shadows to his weary eyes that he couldn’t stand it. This was one such night. 

A primal fear overwhelmed him after a nightmare, even when some rational, intelligent part of him screamed that he was alright, he was safe, he could sleep. If only he could sleep. His own tactics had been what he thought of as practical: he would get up, get dressed, and get to work. Maybe sleep would return. Maybe it wouldn’t. If it did not, Cullen was of a mind that meant he simply got a head start on a new day. Now in Bree he had a playmate. And to her credit, her fancies worked. The dread dissipated, enough so that in the moment he thought just briefly that he could be normal again. Once the diversion was over—his rounds completed, his senses taxed, his mind distracted by whatever she thought might work—the fear was always there, waiting for his mind to quiet. But he had indulged Bree’s fancies because they bought him time. Everything she suggested, he gamely tried. Perhaps he had gone too far in encouraging her, in giving her hope. Now she was asking the impossible. 

“You… want me to what?”

Bree’s eyes were wide and awake. She had worked herself into a fervour, clinging to her conviction.

“Go back into the dream.” She didn’t even bother to whisper.

He laughed weakly, “You must be joking.” 

Her direct and unflinching gaze said otherwise. “Mages are taught to manipulate the dream narrative, yes?” He recognised this tone and groaned. A lecture. “We’re taught about the Fade and about dreams. We’re taught etiquette, even.” She had halloo’d a statue, a handful of vases, a tent, and every tentacle-like tree-thing she came across in her Harrowing. Nothing had come of it, but her tutor would be proud. None could say Bree Amell had been raised without proper manners. “We’re taught these things because it is assumed we have some degree of power over our dreams. We are… aware. Why cannot you do the same?”

“Because,” Cullen explained slowly because the answer was so obvious, “I am not a mage.”

“Do you not have willpower of your own? Are you not made of the same stuff of life as I am?”

“I do not have the same bond with the Fade.” He did not bother to mask his exasperation. This was recruit-level material. “You draw from it. I do not.”

“But if you are made from the same stuff of life, if you have the strength of will, if you enter the Fade in dreams as I do, then it follows you must have An Affect.” 

“Then what do you suggest I do?” Cullen snapped back. He did not like any implication that he simply lacked the willpower to stop his night terrors or that Bree’s suggestion would be so easy for anyone without magic to accomplish.

“Go back into the dream. Fight it.” He opened his mouth to protest, but Bree continued too swiftly, trying again from a different angle. “When the Inquisitor falls off her horse, she gets right back in the saddle. There’s no time to breathe, no time to quake, no time to think. She just… hops back on. Again. And again. And again. Morowa is not scared of falling because she knows, within her, that she will get up, dust herself off, and she will be—what does she say?—’just peachy’. The dream is your horse. You need to get back in the saddle.”

“I’ve fallen many times too, Bree.” His voice was quiet, but not diminished. “It hasn’t made dreaming easier.”

Bree brought her face close to his and raised her hands to cup his face. Cullen tried his best not to shy away from the closeness so immediately after a nightmare. He doubled down against his skittish instincts by bringing his own hands to cover hers, leaning into one of her palms. “I know you have it within you to fight.” She spoke with such passion that he nearly believed her in that moment. “Templar Knights go into battle doubly-armed. They protect their bodies with armour of steel, but their souls are protected by the armour of their faith. They need fear neither demons nor mages.” There was a slight curl at both corners of Cullen’s mouth. It was strange hearing words from the early, founding Templars on the lips of a mage. He remembered those words, typically thrown at fresh recruits to bolster them, to prepare them for what lay ahead in their careers. Bree would have done well as a Chantry sister if the Amell family hadn’t been crippled by magic. 

“What have you been this past decade? What have you always wanted to be since you were a child? You are a Templar Knight. You bring that with you in your dreams.”

Part of him wanted to laugh. Bree clutched to an ideal of shining, heroic knights, the Chantry’s genteel and noble warriors, the people’s champions and protectors. For the most part, that vision did not speak to his reality, but there was yet another part of him, that was young and naive still, that yearned for that ideal, that strength of conviction. That faith. So Cullen indulged her again.

“Then how do I… fight a dream?”

Her fingers, under his fingers, drummed his skull and there was a knowing smile on her lips. “Your dreams are pulling from one specific time, but your experiences stretch beyond that. When your dreams want to twist to return to that time, you have two opposing options: you can resist or you can lean in. To resist, you draw from what you know, from your core. If…” She pulled her hands out from under his and pulled them to her mouth in thought. Cullen dropped his hands from his face. She was trying to be tactful, “If… if your dream shows someone… greatly altered… then you look them in their eyes and you recall their essence. The memory of them in their entirety as you knew them. Not a fragment or a piece in time and space, but them as a whole, timeless and boundless.”

“And if they have no eyes?” Cullen asked coolly.

Bree didn’t seem shocked or surprised, replying with a serious, “Then you look them in the eyes they haven’t got and you remember their eyes.” 

“And to lean in?”

“To resist is to say, ‘No, that man is more than his pain. Here is how he would want to be remembered.’ But to lean in is to say, ‘That man is in pain. I will give him my sword so that he may fight.’ So if your dream has you trapped, a dreamer who leans in will accept that they are trapped, but they might write a loophole for themselves. Maybe their body cannot currently pass through this barrier, but a weapon can. Maybe that weapon can shatter the barrier. Maybe a demon can be tricked into shattering the barrier or giving the prisoner a weapon. Or maybe they can use a prayer or a portion of the Chant of Light to renew their Templar-given abilities to sunder the barrier.” She gave him a pointed look, as if he hadn’t already gotten the hint. “I don’t know,” she continued airily, “There are any number of endings for a dreamer who leans in, the trick is finding the right narrative that works for them within the dream.”

“Then what exactly is your recommendation for me?”

“To try something different. You pull away from the dreams,—” Cullen grimaced. “—so perhaps the opposite may work? You have a critical mind,” she ignored his offended glare, “So perhaps identifying all the things that are wrong with the dream will help. Maybe making a point of remembering people beyond that moment in time, remembering the whole of them, will help. Maybe rewriting how your dream ends will help. Maybe it takes one method, maybe a variation of all three. I am not sure. All I know is that when something isn’t working and you wish to solve a problem, a different approach is needed.”

Cullen paused before settling his body back down on the bed. His senses were still decidedly unsettled. He looked to Bree, still watching him closely, and said, “Tell me all about your day. From the beginning. Spare me no detail.” Bree huffed, catching on to what he needed and offended that that was what he thought could put him right to sleep. She muttered something about the nerve of some people as she also lay down beside him.

“Oh,” Cullen said, as she opened her mouth to begin, “I should mention that if I am going to do this, then I want you to watch me. Like a Templar.” If she was going to espouse their platitudes, she might as well act like one.

“That won’t disturb you when you wake up?”

“I’ll already be disturbed. You watching me won’t tip the balance one way or another.”

Bree rolled onto her side, propping herself up onto an elbow. “Very well. I suppose I’ll start with waking up, although I don’t know why you would want me to start here as there’s nothing particularly interesting about this part of my day. I think it was a bit after dawn, though I can’t be quite certain…” She started slowly and roughly with her telling, looping back to revisit details she had missed, but she soon fell into a rhythm and, although she was no Varric, made good of her often annoying penchant for prattle. Cullen closed his eyes and mentally roved down his own body from his head to his toes, making sure that each part of him was physically relaxed before lending his ear to Bree’s incessant babbling. She was onto breakfast and her high esteem of the cook’s poached eggs. The degree of pleasant wobbliness apparently was a factor in her judgement. Cullen tried not to smile. There was a distinct possibility that when he woke up, she wouldn’t have gotten much past noon in her telling and would want to see her task through to the end. He stayed present, sometimes focusing on her words and sometimes on his breathing. He kept his eyes shut and his body still. Cullen would not be able to say at what point in Bree’s story his consciousness released him to the Fade. In his mind’s eye, he returned to that room. He returned to the bodies and to the blood. He returned to his cage. To his Harrowing. There Cullen knelt and braced himself.


End file.
